


ellipsing

by SomeTorist



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Friendship, Gen, Managing Trauma, Past Brainwashing, Trauma, a prodding into the meaning of "recovery" fic, also: a prodding into the meaning of "hurt/comfort" fic, also: how hypocritical is it of me to have tagged the relationships and characters the way i have, anyway, um
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-17
Updated: 2014-09-17
Packaged: 2018-02-17 17:48:28
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,608
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2318033
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SomeTorist/pseuds/SomeTorist
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He calls you Bucky.</p>
            </blockquote>





	ellipsing

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Lancinate](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lancinate/gifts).



> Over a year ago, the amazing Lancinate bought my fic writing services for the AO3 auction. This isn't what he asked for, and it's not what I promised him, but I'm dedicating it to him all the same. :)

He calls you Bucky. He is: Steven Grant Rogers, Captain America, born 1917. Bucky was: James Buchanan Barnes, Howling Commando, born 1916. He calls you Bucky.

No, you say.

You are, he says. Bucky.

No, you say again, louder. You feel it deep in your throat.

What do you want me to call you, he says, Steven Grant Rogers, Captain America, born–

He’s blocking the nearer exit but you can beat him to the other, the one around the corner near the trashcan.

Don’t, he says. Don’t go. I’ll just find you again. Save us both the time.

He doesn’t know you let him find you.

Your right hand holds a knife. Boots on your feet, no socks, bulletproof vest on bare chest.

You watch the sun move across the floor.

If I go, you say. If I come, what then.

He looks at you. You watch him breathe, time your breaths against his.

I don’t know, he says. I don’t know, Buck, but I promise–

He catches you as you round the corner, kicks at your ankles so you roll and crouch. You swing at him, right hand, knife, only after he jumps for the trashcan.

Bucky, he says. You pin him to the wall, left hand, knife on his throat.

Your jaw, tense, won’t let you say, No.

Sun in his hair. You watch him watch you. Knife on his throat, and he isn’t afraid. You have seen fear. You know fear. He isn’t afraid.

Your hand lowers. Blood on his neck, leaking.

Nothing, you say.

Shadows in his hair now.

Okay, he says. He wipes at the blood, cut already healed. I won’t call you anything, if that’s what you want.

Your jaw tenses again, teeth hard on teeth. He watches you. Wind on your cheek, in your ears.

You nod to the exit and only move after he’s past the door frame.

Call me him and I leave, you say. He turns to watch you following him.

Okay, he says, quiet and not afraid. He turns front and walks forward and you follow, breaths timed against his.

     

* * *

     

She’s waiting outside his apartment on an adjacent roof. He doesn’t see her.

Inside, he stops next to the couch. You watch him from the doorway. He turns, watches you watch him. Puts a hand on his neck.

There’s an extra bedroom, he says. Never saw why I’d need it, but.

Rain on the windows.

Are you hungry, he says. I have some stuff if you wanna eat.

You bite hard on nothing. Walk around the kitchen so your back’s never to him, close the extra bedroom door behind you. Don’t look at the bed, cross the room, pull the window open, climb out. Scale the fire escape.

She’s waiting on the roof, hip against the air duct. Natalia Romanova, Black Widow, assassin of the Red Room, born 1944. Natasha Romanoff, Black Widow, agent for SHIELD, born 1984. You sit on the ledge so your back’s to the sky.

Puddles around your feet.

Welcome to the land of the living, she says. In the dark, you see: the whites of her eyes, shock cuffs on her wrists, her teeth when she speaks.

On the street: a trash truck.

I told him not to chase you, she says, louder. That he might not like what he found.

Your jaw tenses. Hands, both, ball into fists.

She tilts her head. You watch her watch you. She breathes in.

James, she says, quiet.

You’re standing. Fists are still fists. You can see more of her, now.

Hm, she says. She’s standing too. Water dripping from her hair.

You watch her put her back to you and walk to the roof’s edge, jump off, disappear.

Rainwater in your ears. Wind on your cheek. On the street: the truck pulls away.

You uncurl your fists. You breathe.

     

* * *

     

Falling, soundless, that lurching tug-pull in your gut. Falling and falling and falling and falling and falling and falling and falling and falling, endless, wind in your ears, screaming, like you, until.

Bucky, he says through the locked door. Are you. Do you. Should I come in.

Your jaw won’t move, frozen open in its scream.

You hear him sit on the hallway floor, his back against the door.

Slowly, you breathe in.

     

* * *

     

Sam Wilson, he says with a nod.

You remember: a kick in the head, pulling wings from the sky.

Sam Wilson is smiling.

Fly boy, you say.

Sam Wilson laughs.

Falcon, he says. But hey, fly boy’s alright. I’ll answer to that.

You watch Steve watch you.

Noise from the television.

You walk towards the room Steve gave you, back to the wall.

     

* * *

     

You dream of falling, again. You don’t know you’re dreaming. Again.

Again.

Again.

Again.

He is always outside, his back against your door.

     

* * *

     

She visits through the front door this time. Natalia Romanova, Black Widow, Natasha Romanoff, Black Widow. You stay locked in the room Steve gave you, listen to her talk to him and Sam Wilson.

What do you think, Sam Wilson says. I mean, look. I know vets, but this is.

He’s not a vet, she says. He was taken by HYDRA.

Wind in your ears.

Nothing normal about this, she says. Comparing him to anyone, including himself, won’t work.

What do you mean, Steve says. I know he’s. Gone through a lot. But he’s still.

He’s not, she says, louder. When they wiped him, Steve, they wiped him. We aren’t talking layers of paint that you peel off to get to the man you used to know.

What are we talking about then, Sam Wilson says.

Your jaw won’t unclench. Your lungs, frozen in your chest. Left hand, metal hand, opening, closing, opening, closing, squeezing, squeezing–

They tore the wallpaper down, Steve, she says. They pulled him from cryo, wallpapered the room they needed, and when he was done, they pulled it down again. It’s not a perfect analogy, sure, but. They tore walls down, too. Pulled out the foundation. Smashed the windows in. Bulldozed the whole property, maybe, I don’t know, Steve, they unmade him, just to remake him how they wanted, it’s what they do.

Should I ask how you know all that, Sam Wilson says.

It’s what they always do, she says.

But he, Steve says. He knew me. When I fell. He saved me.

We don’t know that, she says. And even if he did. The Winter Soldier knows patterns, not people. Habits, rituals. Pulling you from that river could’ve easily been a residual part of his programming.

Steve is breathing, quiet.

Jesus, he says.

Wind in your ears, lurching tug-pull in your gut. Back against the wall. Knees to your chest, arms around your legs, head on your knees, fists clenched. Eyes shut.

I’m sorry, she says through the door. He needed to know. And going behind your back wasn’t an option.

     

* * *

     

You sit in the corner and watch the moonlight go from the opposite corner, across the floor, to the wall, up the wall. You watch the darkness until sunlight inches across the floor.

Outside your door: Steve.

Outside your window: birds.

     

* * *

     

He’s there when you open your door.

Hi, he says. Fatigue in his voice.

You’re tired, you say.

Nah, he says. All good. Do you. Need anything.

Your stomach rumbles.

I have eggs, he says. Boiled, fried, scrambled. Sam tried to teach me how to poach an egg once, but that. Didn’t go so well. So.

You blink.

Kitchen’s this way, he says.

You wait for him to move. You follow him through.

     

* * *

     

Kinda miss Morita’s eggs, he says. He used to. Crack all the eggs we could find in one pot, scramble ‘em with everything we had, and somehow managed to make it taste halfway decent.

His laugh, offbeat.

Always the best damn meal I’d had in days, he says.

You fork eggs into your mouth. Scrambled.

You watch him watch you.

More eggs.

He looks down.

Anyway, he says.

     

* * *

     

Left hand around his throat, his back against the wall. His mouth, gasping for air.

Moonlight on the floor.

Sorry, he says. The. The door was. Unlocked.

Rain against the window.

He’s still gasping. You can feel the breath stutter through his throat.

You swallow. You let go.

He coughs and gags, loud. You watch him. Time your breaths against his.

Probably should’ve knocked first, huh, he says. More coughing.

I was sleeping, you say.

Yeah, I got that much, he says. He straightens, puts a hand on his neck.

In the distance: thunder.

Are they, he says. Getting better. The dreams.

Dreams, you say.

Or, he says. Worse. Is that why you. Is that why you unlocked the door.

They’re, you say and stop. Your tongue won't move, can't qualify that tug-pull lurching gut, the wind against your face, how the screams in your mouth are the screams in your dreams.

He watches you. Thunder.

The same, you say.

     

* * *

     

Hey, he says, leaning in your doorway. We’re out of eggs.

On your leg: your right hand, open. Left hand, open.

Just thought I’d ask if you wanted to come with me, he says.

Your right hand closes. Left hand, closed. Fists.

Yeah, he says.

Sun in his hair.

Sam might come over later, he says.

He leaves, puts his back to you. You hear the front door open, close.

Open: your right hand, left hand, your door.

     

* * *

     

Hey man, Sam Wilson says. Has Cap told you you stink yet.

He’s standing in your doorway. Steve’s still gone.

Fly boy, you say.

Yeah, Sam Wilson says. And you reek, man.

Your right hand: closed. Left hand: splayed open.

You got something against showering, Sam Wilson says.

You remember: Steve’s breath under the left hand, metal hand. Fingers curled around his throat. Stuttering gasps.

I used to hate baths, Sam Wilson says. Always thought they took too long. I was too busy giving my mom a headache, didn’t wanna slow down.

You can pull the fingers off either hand. Gaze fixed on the left hand, metal hand, splayed open.

Showers were just as bad, though, Sam Wilson says, and laughs.

Your right hand curls around left pointer finger, metal finger, trigger finger. It isn’t cold. It isn’t anything.

Hey, Sam Wilson says. Hey, man.

You pull.

Hey, Sam Wilson says, also now on the bed.

Beneath your palm, whirring metal. Plates shifting up, down, up, down, recalibrating. Counterbalancing.

You sure you wanna do that to yourself, Sam Wilson says.

You pull hard, whirr loud.

Okay, Sam Wilson says. His hands lower onto the bed.

Alright, he says.

You feel the metal under your palm. You don’t feel the skin of your palm.

Why, you say. Sam Wilson looks at your eyes.

D’you know what’ll happen when you pull it off, he says.

You remember: bright lights, whirring, left arm panels open, metal hand around someone’s throat, squeezing through.

That’s why, Sam Wilson says.

Where’s, you say.

On his way back already, Sam Wilson says. C’mon. Let’s watch a movie or something.

Whirring metal under your right palm. Up, down, up, down, up, down.

Sam Wilson stands from the bed, puts his back to you, walks to your door.

Whirr.

Slowly, you let go.

     

* * *

     

He naps on the couch.

You sit on the floor facing him, your back against the television.

He wakes quickly.

Hi, he says and blinks at you.

You watch his chest breathe, time your breaths against his.

You look at his face. He’s smiling.

Eggs, you say.

Yeah, he says. Let’s do it.

     

* * *

     

She knocks on the front door. You hear Steve greet her, hear her kiss his cheek.

How are you, she says.

Eh, he says. Can’t complain.

I’d love to see you try, she says.

You hear her footsteps before you see her. You watch her lean against your doorframe.

I hear you like eggs, she says.

Her hair is longer. A knife on her thigh.

I’m making сы́рник, she says. Wanna help me out.

No shock cuffs, but you remember: sudden jolts through the metal arm.

You’ve made it before, she says, tilts her head. If that matters.

Left hand, metal hand, unclenches.

You tilt your head.

Slowly, you stand from the bed. She smirks, puts her back to you, waits for you in the hallway before the kitchen.

You watch Steve follow her instructions, mixing the cottage cheese, sugar, eggs in a bowl.

Here, she says, puts the bowl between you and her on the island. придади.

You watch her hands pull the dough, make a small ball, roll it in flour, put it on a plate. Pull the dough, make a ball, flour, plate. Dough, ball, flour, plate.

He watches you and her work, smiling, hip against the island.

Dough, ball, flour, plate.

She has Steve fry them. You watch her take one from the pan in her fingers, bite, and grin.

Pretty good for your first time, Rogers, she says. Or was that not your first time.

Steve laughs. She plates them, puts them on the island.

See, she says. There are many things to do with eggs.

Yeah, yeah, he says.

It’s soft on your teeth.

     

* * *

     

You wake with vomit in your mouth.

It’s alright, he says, hand light on your back.

Blurry vision, wet cheeks. Shaking.

It’s alright, he says.

More vomit on his feet. Sour, like cottage cheese.

Shaking.

     

* * *

     

Alright, he says. Do you. Can you stand.

You stand.

Oh, he says. Okay. Thought you might want a shower.

Vomit on the floor. Yellow, like eggs.

Gotta throw up some more, he says. It’s alright.

Your jaw, tense. Mouth still sour.

His hand on your right elbow. Your eyes close.

Let’s go to the bathroom, he says, quiet.

You remember: shocks through your body, bit in your mouth, bile in your throat, trapped, gagging, gagging–

Bright lights. Water on tile.

You remember: water over your head, alright, put him on ice, the metal door, cold, dark.

You watch him test the water with his hand.

You pull off the shirt, pull down the pants, step in. Water over your head.

It’s too cold, he says.

You watch vomit swirl down the drain.

He makes a noise. You turn, watch him look up from where metal arm meets chest.

Are you, he says. Will you be alright in here.

You still stand.

I’ll just be outside, he says. He puts his back to you, shuts the door, wooden, behind him.

Water over your head.

Shaking.

     

* * *

     

Hey man, Sam Wilson says.

Back against the television, knees to chest, arms around legs, head on knees. Fists. Eyes closed.

It alright if I sit with you a bit, Sam Wilson says.

You swallow. Sour, still.

You hear Sam Wilson sit on the floor against the couch, coffee table between you.

Took seven months before I could do anything more than twenty minute naps, Sam Wilson says, quiet. Nightmares.

Shiver. Left hand, metal hand, squeezes, plates shifting. Up, down.

You remember: water, ice him, door, cold, darkness.

Am I broken, you say.

Whirr.

You hear Sam Wilson lean forward.

What do you think, he says, easy.

Steve in the room he gave you, cleaning egg colored vomit.

Fly boy, you say.

Yeah, Sam Wilson says. I’m right here.

     

* * *

     

You scale the fire escape, sit on the roof’s edge with heels against the wall. No rain, no sun, no moon, clouds covering stars.

You remember stars.

Four roofs away, she watches you. Doesn’t come closer.

You look down. Your right hand, left hand, your knees, the alley. Quiet. A flickering streetlight.

You look up, watch the clouds drift until you see the moon. Crescent.

You remember this, too.

     

* * *

     

She sits with you. You and her on the roof’s edge, Steve seven floors down with his back against the door he gave you.

You sleep less. You never see her sleep. Steve only naps.

Rain tomorrow, she says, moon in her hair.

     

* * *

     

Sun on the horizon, rising, streaking the sky purple. You and her on the ledge, heels against the brick wall. Birds waking.

Natasha Romanoff, you say, slow. She shrugs, smiles with half her mouth.

It made them more comfortable, she says. Romanova sounded just a bit too much like the enemy.

Faint wind on your cheek.

James Buchanan Barnes, you say, his name bitter on your tongue. You don’t gag.

I’ve heard worse, she says, half smiling still, easy.

You knew him, you say.

A version of him, she says.

A version, you say.

She looks away, then back.

Yes, she says.

Was he Bucky too, you say.

James, she says.

You remember: the roof, the first night.

Better or worse, you say. This.

Her jaw tightens.

He’s gone now, so it doesn’t really matter, she says.

Worse, you say.

You watch her breathe. In, out.

I’ve found there often isn’t a better and worse, she says. There just. Is.

     

* * *

     

She sits with you in the rain.

     

* * *

     

When you open your door, he isn’t there. Your pulse kicks up.

Knife from your thigh in your hand now, back against the wall, moving through early morning shadows. Wrong. Something’s wrong.

Noise from the living room.

You know: you can cross the living room in 1.7 seconds, can knife an unsuspecting victim in less than 2. Four seconds if they’re suspecting.

I just wanted to say, the television says. That I know that I’m indecisive. But I’m not indecisive with you.

You enter the room crouched, then straighten.

Sam Wilson, you say.

Sam Wilson cranes his head to look at you, lifts his spoon.

Hey man, Sam Wilson says. You like Keeping Up With The Kardashians.

The knife rolls in your hand.

What am I saying, Sam Wilson says. ‘Course you do. This is prime American television, right here. Feel like joining me.

Slowly, you walk to the couch.

Steve, you say.

Sam Wilson watches you.

Had to go to work, Sam Wilson says, quiet. Didn’t want you to be alone though, so here I am. Figured I may as well catch up on my show.

Slowly, you sit beside him, perch on the couch’s edge.

You don’t have to, Sam Wilson says. You know that, right. I don’t mind watching the Kardashians all by my lonesome.

It's a very cute idea, the television says. This love bracelet. It obviously doesn't go with my gold accessories, but if it did I'd always wear it.

Slowly, you settle into the couch.

     

* * *

     

Woah, hey, the Kardashians, the stranger says, walks straight past Steve towards the living room. I think I dated a Kardashian once.

Now really isn’t a good time, Steve says.

Woah, hey, the stranger says. Who’re you. Who’s this.

You watch him watch you, watch his eyes flick up the left arm, metal arm. Cold, assessing, familiar. Your jaw tenses.

Don’t tell me, the stranger says, turns back on Steve. You devious bastard. You’ve had him this whole time, haven’t you.

Steve comes back, shrugs.

I wouldn’t say anyone has him, he says. But he’s been here a while, sure.

I knew it, the stranger says.

You watch Steve’s eyebrow lift.

That you weren’t really as, rah rah, let’s follow every order to the letter, the stranger says, waves his hand.

Your mouth laughs once, short. The stranger turns back to you. Your jaw, tense, again.

Huh, the stranger says.

You watch him watch you, his eyes on yours.

Ironically enough, the stranger says. I came because I thought I had a lead on you. It was total bullshit, obviously. Thought you were in Los Angeles, which, c’mon. Who goes to Los Angeles.

Many people go to Los Angeles, she says from behind him.

Agent Romanoff, the stranger says, loud. What a surprise. Though. Does it really count as a surprise when everyone expects you to surprise them.

You jumped, she says.

I have very quick reflexes, the stranger says.

You watch her sit next to you on the couch.

Is this guy bothering you, she says to you, half her mouth smiling.

Hey, the stranger says. I’m a delight. Bucky agrees with me, don’t ya, buddy.

He’s not, Steve says then stops.

Beside you, the lines of her body: sharper.

You hear Steve sigh, bring a hand to his forehead. On the television, Kim Kardashian chooses a handbag.

Bucky’s dead, you say.

The handbag is blue.

Oh, the stranger says. Huh.

     

* * *

     

Cold seeps through the windows. Moon on the walls.

Against the door he gave you, Steve is crying, quiet.

Left hand, metal hand, knocks against the door, once, twice. Steve sniffs.

Sorry, he says, sniffs. Sorry. I’m alright. You can go back to sleep.

You look at your untouched bed from the corner opposite the moonlight.

Left hand, metal hand, reaches up, turns the doorknob. He shuffles to let the door open.

In the dark, you see: the whites of his eyes, shot red. Blue pupils.

Steve, you say.

He laughs once, shakes his head.

It’s nothing, he says, lying.

You frown. Jaw shifts, chest aches.

Are you, you say. Broken.

Another laugh sob, another head shake.

Nah, he says, wipes his eyes. Can’t be. Invincible super soldier, remember.

You remember.

Slowly: left hand, metal hand, on his right elbow.

He shudders once, twice, his elbow still under the left hand, metal hand.

Sorry, he says, quiet, crying again. I. It’s not. I.

You remember: vomit in your mouth, Steve’s hand on your back, on your elbow.

Gotta cry some more, you say. It’s alright.

He exhales, wet. He shakes.

It’s alright, you say, quiet.

Hand on his elbow, moonlight on the walls.

You and Steve on the hallway floor.

**Author's Note:**

> BIG love to both [justawordshaker](http://justawordshaker.tumblr.com/) and Lancinate for reading this as a WIP and offering such stunningly helpful feedback. I love you both loads – for that, and also many other reasons. 
> 
> This fic is in conversation with the many already-existing TWS questions-of-autonomy-and-agency narratives; if you're interested in reading more, especially the fics that inspired and informed this one, feel free to contact me on [tumblr](http://mellowblueness.tumblr.com)!


End file.
